


Hal Jordan Has A Plan

by FabulaRasa



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-28 07:06:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17782844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/pseuds/FabulaRasa
Summary: Hal decides he knows best about Barry's love life, and has a plan to fix it. And since when has Hal having a plan turned out anything other than awesome?





	1. Chapter 1

“I have a plan,” the Green Lantern announced, coming down the stairs into the Cave. Which was annoying, because it meant he had come through the house, which meant Alfred had opened the door to him, and he was going to have to be stricter with Alfred in future about opening the door to just anyone he pleased. 

“Hal Jordan’s last recorded words,” Bruce murmured, concentrating on his electron microscope scans. Or rather, the digital manipulations of the scans he was currently editing on his screen. It was work that required concentration and focus, two things that always evaporated in Jordan’s presence. It was impossible to get anything done around the walking migraine trigger that was the Green Lantern.

“So,” Jordan said, sprawling himself uninvited in a chair. “Do you want to hear my plan?”

“Is there any chance I can dissuade you from sharing it?”

“It’s about that thing we were talking about the other day. You know – the thing.”

Bruce looked at him blankly. “You don’t remember? The thing?? That we were talking about? About Barry?”

Bruce continued to stare, and Jordan sighed. “Do you never listen to _anything_ I’m saying?”

“Sorry, what?”

“For fuck’s sake. About Barry and. . . you know. His. . . thing.”

Bruce had a painful flash of memory. This Cave, some weeks ago. Jordan yammering on endlessly about something that could not have been any less his business. “Jordan,” he tried. “Let me try to correct several mistaken impressions. It’s going to be multi-step directions, so a bit of a challenge I know, but try to stay with me. I am not now, nor have I ever been, interested in Barry Allen’s personal life. Second, even if I were, you are not a reliable source of information about it, and I wouldn’t pay attention to so much as a weather report from you even if the head of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration hand-delivered it to you in person. Third, the Cave is not an extension of the Watchtower, and it is not a place where you can enter without invitation and with the assumption that my work can be interrupted by you whenever you please. So, to review in order: I don’t care; you’re wrong; and get out.”

“You think I’m _wrong_?”

“Number three was really the most important point.”

“I don’t get you, man. Aren’t you the one always talking about the importance of team dynamics? Don’t you see how this is gonna fuck with the team? I mean – come on, there is no way this is not going to be a disaster. Even you have to see that.”

“A disaster,” Bruce repeated. “Two mature, responsible adults embarking on a consensual relationship for whatever reasons best please them.”

“Aha, so you admit it’s true,” Jordan said, pointing at him in triumph. 

“A _hypothetical_ consensual relationship,” Bruce amended, but the damage was done, he had made the mistake of responding at all, and now Jordan was like a dog rolling on a dead squirrel, and he would not let go of it. 

“Oho, you better believe it’s not hypothetical,” Jordan said, and he got up and started pacing. “There is nothing hypothetical about this, you better believe it, no sir. This is if anything _hyper_ thetical, is how thetical it is.”

“The English language is just something that happened to other people for you, isn’t it?”

“Well that’s all right,” Jordan continued, “I can prove it. I have evidence.”

“God please no." 

“And the thing is, you and me, we’re the perfect team-up to put an end to this. Don’t you see? We’re the only ones who can. We’re the only ones they’ll listen to. Look, I can’t have this fucking up my life right now. I’m under a lot of pressure with the Corps right now, things at work are insane, I’m back and forth from the Theta sector like every four days, and when I’m earthside, I just need to be able to go out with my friend and have a beer and watch a game. Just normal guy stuff. And the last two years have been awesome, because Iris and Barry have been going through their divorce and Barry has had a lot more time to hang out, and things have been great, they’ve been just like they used to be. I can’t handle things getting fucked up again.”

Bruce was leaning on one hand watching him. “Your best friend’s divorce has been awesome for you,” he said. 

“Yes! Exactly. And it’s too soon for him anyway, he can’t go getting involved again this soon. I’m doing him a favor, really.”

“It’s like watching a death cage match between your narcissism and your homoerotic codependence. Much as I’d love to sit here and watch that unfold for the rest of the afternoon, I think I should point out that you’re forgetting one very important thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t care.”

“Ah but you will care, my friend. You will care when you see the brilliance of what I am about to lay out for you. Only a truly strategic mind could have come up with this plan, and I think when you see it you are going to be singing a different song, just you wait. I have a plan.”

“On my tombstone there will be five words,” Bruce sighed. “Hal Jordan had a plan.”

* * *

“Hey,” Barry whispered, his arms sliding around naked sleep-warm skin. He brushed a kiss on a bare shoulder. “Hey baby. I gotta get to work.” 

“Mmmnngrh,” came the protest, and Barry laughed softly. 

“I know, but I’m gonna cut out early, I promise. We’ll have the whole weekend. And if work calls this weekend, I am not even gonna answer, you wait and see.”

There was a soft chuckle from the other side of the pillow. “Liar,” croaked the sleepy voice, and Barry tightened his arms. 

“Hey,” he whispered. “Be thinking about what you want to do for dinner. I made a couple reservations in case you wanted to be fancy. Or I could pick up some stuff at the market, and we could cook here.”

“I have a better idea.”

“And what’s that?”

Faster than even he could track, he was on his back, being pressed into the mattress, his hands above his head. His arms were immobilized, and so was the rest of him for that matter. There was a soft nuzzle at his jaw, his neck, his ear. There was a bit of tongue in it now, and Barry could already feel the thickening in his groin at it. “Fuck,” he moaned. 

“Exactly,” Clark said. “You guessed my idea already. It’s that deductive mind of yours.”

“Well I am a—trained—scientist,” he gasped, as Clark’s tongue worked its way around his throat, under his collar. He had already started a slow grind into Barry’s hips. “Fuck, why did you have to be so naked.”

“Your own fault for getting dressed,” Clark said, and then his mouth was on Barry’s, and everything else got obliterated. 

So instead of being early to work, he was in fact significantly late, but it went unremarked. He was a little sorry about that, because in the car he had practiced what he was going to say about it. _Sorry, a friend of mine is in town, I got held up this morning._ Or he could just say, _I have houseguests this weekend._ But then he realized he didn’t want to say any of those things. He wanted to say, _my boyfriend is in town this weekend._ He could say it. He was in fact eager to say it. Maybe he would try to find a way to work it into conversation at lunch. It could be that he was looking for things to do in town this weekend. _My boyfriend is in town, and we were thinking about that new exhibit at the Sutton._

But he wouldn’t. There were too many reasons to keep their civilian identities far apart, and not everything Bruce said about security was the bullshit Hal thought it was. They all had solid identities, but nothing that would ever withstand real scrutiny. If they were linked in their civilian lives, then those identities became weaker – if one of them were clocked, then the others would be at risk. Their strength was in their separateness. 

His phone buzzed about mid-morning. _Hey I’m sorry I made you late,_ read the text, and he smiled. Anyone watching him would know. 

_You motherfucker,_ he wrote back. _You are just now getting out of bed, aren’t you?_

A string of dots was his only answer, and he laughed. _Hey were you serious about tonight, that you made reservations plural?_ Clark wrote.

_Yeah, I didn’t know what you might like._

_You didn’t have to do that. I don’t need wining and dining. I am the textbook definition of a sure thing._

Barry grinned again. _One of the many things I love about you,_ he wrote and then thought shit shit shit. From the pause on the other end maybe Clark was thinking the same. Shit. He didn’t know how to fix it. Should he fix it? He couldn’t think of what to say. His pause was making it worse. 

_I love a lot about you too,_ Clark wrote back. Barry’s heart was hammering. There were several suave exits here. He could say, why don’t you show me when I get home. He could say, I bet you’ve got some favorite parts. Clark could say something like yeah, your left ass-cheek is a particular favorite. Any number of things to say here. And somehow neither of them was saying them.

 _I love you,_ Barry wrote, because he was forty fucking years old and divorced and it had taken him half his life to know what it was that love was actually supposed to feel like, and fuck if he was going to lie or obfuscate or pretend for one more second of his life than he had to, not when he had spent so much of his life doing that already. 

_I love you too,_ came the almost instantaneous reply, and Barry set the phone down. “Hey Lucia,” he said. 

“Yeah?”

“I’m gonna go get some more coffee, you want anything?”

“Nah man.”

“Kay,” he said, and headed briskly to the stairwell. In point seven seconds he was in his bathroom, the door whooshing behind him, and Clark was standing there about to step into the shower, gaping at him. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be—”

But that was the last thing he managed, because Barry had slammed him to the bathroom wall and was kissing the breath out of him – and that was a fun little thing he had learned in the last few months, that the speed force correctly applied could actually knock Clark off balance, and how much did he fucking love that, that he was the only one in the universe who could knock Clark off his feet, and sometimes when life handed you the perfect metaphor you just took it and ran. Clark was kissing him back just as fierce, and their hands were all over each other, and Clark was making that small groaning noise in the base of his throat that drove Barry insane. Clark’s fists were in his shirt now, and then his shirt was in pieces on the floor. Barry looked down at the pieces.

“Okay, that—how was that necessary?” he said, but Clark was laughing. 

“I was making a point,” he said. 

“You asshole,” he said, and his mouth was back on Clark’s, and Clark was tugging at the rest of his clothes, and fuck the office, just fuck it, fuck everything. Fuck everything but Clark’s perfect body and perfect mind and his wry gentle laugh and the way his hands cupped Barry’s ass and the way his shoulders shook when he was so close to coming. 

“Love you so much,” Clark was murmuring against his skin, and Barry wrenched Clark’s mouth to his and tried to say everything he wanted that way, but _love you love you love you_ spilled out his mouth and tongue and teeth and skin, it was all he could think or feel or breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It probably needs pointing out that the Barry of this story (and of all my stories, though this is the first one I've written that is so Barry-centric) is the Barry of the comics, not the terrifyingly young Barry of the Snyder movies. Which is an adorable Barry, don't get me wrong! But he doesn't have much overlap with the canonical character, to say the least.


	2. Chapter 2

Most definitely, that was not the place they had started out. Truthfully, it was not where any relationship he had ever had had started out. It had just been kindness, on Clark’s part. It was the night his divorce was final, and he had come home to his empty apartment and set his bag down and Clark Kent had been standing there in his kitchen with what looked like five bags of take-out and at least seven bottles of expensive liquor. He had put two shot glasses on the counter. 

“Come pull up a stool,” he had said.

“Okay,” Barry said. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing much. Just thought you might be in the mood for some company today.”

“You did.”

“I did. So what’s your pleasure? I wasn’t sure if you were a scotch or a bourbon man, so I brought some of both. Also some rum. But then I looked and you didn’t have any coke in the fridge, and I don’t know how to make any other drinks with rum.”

“I don’t. . . drink sodas. Clark, it’s nice to see you, but what the hell are you doing here?”

Clark had set the rum down. “Well,” he said. “Here’s the thing. I know your divorce was finalized today, and I know that—”

“How do you know my divorce was finalized today?”

Clark looked at him quizzically. “Because your best friend is Hal Jordan.”

“Right,” he sighed. “Look, Clark, it’s not that I don’t appreciate—”

“Please just listen,” Clark had said, and something in his voice had stopped Barry. “Please. You don’t have to eat any of this food, and you don’t have to drink any of this liquor, and you don’t have to eat any of this ice cream I’ve got in the freezer. But the thing is this. Living the life that we do, it gets easy to think that every single thing that goes wrong in the universe is something we could have fixed. Something we should have fixed. We take responsibility for the world because we have to. But that means that when things go wrong in our personal lives – it means it can be hard to know where our responsibility for the universe ends, you know? It means we can make things our fault, when they’re not. It means we can blame ourselves, because when ninety percent of the universe is under our control, it makes that ten percent. . . well, it makes the remaining ten percent a real kick in the balls.”

Barry stood there, studying the line of bottles. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s. . . yeah.”

“And also, I figured you might not know any other divorced people. I didn’t know any when Lo and I got divorced. My closest friends are Bruce and Diana, and they’re not. . . well, let’s just say neither one of them is my go-to on matters of the heart.”

Barry loosened his tie and sat on the barstool by the counter. “I don’t know,” he said thoughtfully. “I think Hal may be divorced.”

“You think he _may_ be divorced?”

“Yeah, I’ve never been entirely clear on that one. He may be married on several different planets. I think his idea of a legal divorce is just never to visit there again.”

Clark laughed, and it was funny, he had never really seen Clark laugh before, not really. Not just standing around in a flannel shirt and jeans – and who did that, who other than an L.L. Bean model just wore flannel in the middle of the day like that – and laughing like he was just a regular guy. Which, at the end of the day, he was. The sight of it made the tight knot in Barry’s stomach ease, just a little.

“So,” he said. “Ice cream, huh? What flavor?”

Clark turned and opened the freezer and Barry laughed out loud then, because his freezer had been turned into three solid rows of ice cream of every flavor imaginable, and he wasn’t sure if he was laughing at the overkill of it or at Clark’s sheepish expression. He shook his head, still laughing. “I’ll take a French Vanilla Bean,” he said, and when Clark had put two scoops in a bowl, Barry reached for the rum and poured a generous stream over his ice cream, until it was swimming in a dark lake of Captain Morgan’s. 

“Now that’s how you mix a rum drink,” he said, and Clark grinned too. 

But that was all it had been – just Clark’s kindness. And Clark had been right, about it being easier to talk to another person who had been through a divorce. Clark’s situation was kind of similar to his, too, because in neither case had there been some big dramatic blow-up, or infidelity, or anything like divorce was in the movies. Just some slowly growing realizations. Slower for him than for Iris, he saw looking back on it, and to that Clark had just said, “yep,” in that knowing way he had. 

And so they had fallen into talking on the phone, off and on. It helped, and Clark was some good company, and maybe the easiest to be around of anyone he had ever known. It was funny to think about him hanging out with Bruce and Diana, because fond as he was of both of them, they were neither what you would call easy-going people. But Clark got along with all sorts of people, and all sorts of people were drawn to Clark. “Do you think that it’s the hero thing?” he said to Clark late one night, staring out his window. “Do you think that’s why marriage is hard?”

He heard Clark’s sigh on the other end. “I want to say no,” he said.

“Yeah, I want to say that too.”

“But I don’t think it’s no.”

“Why not?”

“Because. . . because how many times can you watch someone you love walk out the door and know they might not walk back in? And I know for me, I tried to keep League stuff from eating my relationship with Lois, but all it meant was there was this whole part of my life that she just. . . that I shut her off from.”

Barry was silent. “Yeah,” he said after a while. He thought of all the times he had told Iris that she was part of being the Flash too, that he couldn’t do it without her. “I think it changes us,” he said.

He heard Clark shift. It was midnight in Central City, which meant it was two a.m. in Metropolis, but Clark had been up, he could tell. “Changes us how?”

“I dunno. Maybe it’s the responsibility thing you said before, about how being responsible for the whole universe makes it hard for us to know where to draw the line.”

“I said that?”

“Uh, yeah. You don’t remember that?”

“Not really. But that sounds smart, let’s go with that.”

Barry smiled in the dark. And that’s what it had been – long phone conversations, smiles and laughs in the dark. Re-discovering what it felt like to connect with someone. It had never occurred to him it was anything else. How could it be? I mean, sure. He knew that he was theoretically bi, but a theory was all it had ever been, and he wasn’t sure how much liking to look at certain things when you were watching porn was an actual indicator of sexual preference. Once, Iris had said something, about the way he always seemed absent during sex, but that had been during the long painful denouement, when she had maybe been looking for ways to hurt him. She had accused him of being absent from a lot of things, not just sex. In retrospect, she had not actually been wrong. 

Clark got into the habit of visiting him in Central City, from time to time. They ate rum and ice cream and watched movies and when it was late enough at night and they were just buzzed enough, they would head outside the city limits and go racing, just speeding along the continental divide for the sheer joy of it, and because fun as it was to give himself over to the speed, it was even more fun to look over and see Clark next to him, grinning back. Not that hanging out with Hal wasn’t fun too – it was, it was just fun in a different way than Clark. Clark was someone he could have conversations with, and Clark didn’t think he had to fill every available minute with noise, either. Clark was as given to silences as Barry was, and he found it comfortable. Or maybe it was just that they were both at their core mid-westerners. 

He might never have been aware that in fact his friendship with Clark was something else, if it hadn’t been for the night he was honored at the Star Labs gala. He was getting an award, and it was a big deal, and he had made the mistake of mentioning it to Hal, who had never, not once, kept anything to himself his whole life long. Hal had turned the event into a League party, and Bruce had bought an entire table, and he had shown up with Diana on his arm, and Hal had shown up with some woman Barry had never seen before, and Clark had shown up with a date too. Barry hadn’t brought a date, because it hadn’t occurred to him. It probably should have. Clark’s date seemed very nice. She was pleasant and charming and a reporter at some rival newspaper, Barry couldn’t remember which. 

Barry had happened to glance over at some point in the dinner, and Clark was leaning closer to hear what his date was saying – Ella? Nell? something like that – and he was wearing that look he got, that soft smile, the way those painfully blue eyes would look just right at you, like you were the only person in the room, and the way the smile would spread slowly up his face, and would light his eyes too. And like it was in slow motion, a sharp lance entered Barry’s middle, so clean and true and slow he could feel his internal organs bleeding out the other side. Well wasn’t that interesting. To make matters worse he happened to glance up and see that Bruce was watching him, that coolly assessing gaze that missed exactly nothing, as he fiddled with the olive spear from his martini. Barry hastily looked down again. 

That night was kind of a blur, honestly. 

He probably drank a little more than he should have, not that he could ever really feel it, and he worked hard at keeping the smile plastered on his face as people kept coming up to congratulate him. He worked hard at having a good time, which was of course the surest way to make sure you were having the opposite of a good time. And at the end of the evening he found himself on a terrace that was dense with ficus trees and tipsy people fighting their way over to the bar at the other end, and he felt Clark’s hand on his elbow.

“Barry,” he said, and Barry kept his smile firmly in place.

“Clark,” he said. “Hey. Listen, thank you so much for being here tonight, this has been—”

“What’s wrong?”

“I—nothing’s wrong, what do you mean?”

Clark had still not let go of his elbow, and his voice was low. “Bar, I thought we were supposed to bring a date, if I fucked up please let’s talk about it, don’t just—”

“Of course not, what are you talking about, everything’s fine,” Barry said, and at that moment the photographer grabbed him to come take photos with the mayor and the police chief, all the forensic scientists that were contracted with the force at Star Labs, and he had the pleasure of standing there for twenty minutes holding some ridiculous crystal monolith and grinning like an idiot, and when he was done Clark was gone, along with everyone else.

He didn’t mention it to Clark, who didn’t mention it to him. It was like that night had not happened, and if it had been some unwelcome self-knowledge for him, well, unwelcome self-knowledge was the name of the adulthood game. Besides, it wasn’t like it mattered. He had no interest in having any sort of romantic life ever again.

“Do you think it’s remotely feasible never to date again?” he said one night when Clark was in town. They were up on the roof, and Barry felt daringly transgressive because he had managed to score some weed, and they were passing a blunt back and forth. No one could find them here – they had run up the sheer side of the building, and there was no access from any other point. But still, he felt pleasantly bad-ass. 

“Define date,” Clark said. 

“Not fucking, like a relationship. Actually. . . I guess I do mean fucking. Shit. I mean. . . just the thought of trying to get close to someone again, and then the inevitable conversation about who and what I am, and going through the worry of all that again – how much do I tell her, how do I find the balance between letting her in and keeping my personal life separate from the League, all of that. I’m just tired of it. I sincerely do not want to do that again.”

“I think that’s reasonable,” Clark said. “I certainly plan to be dating only my right hand for the foreseeable future.”

Barry turned to look at him. “You’ve slept with Diana though.”

“Yep.” 

He turned back to study the sky. He really should have learned more about constellations. That’s something Hal was great for, was telling him about the stars he saw, telling him what they were like up close. Actually come to think of it, Clark could do that too. It was easy to forget that. 

“Diana’s gay,” Clark offered after a while. 

“Yeah, I guess I could have seen that one coming.”

“Yeah. So it was more of a one-and-done kind of thing.”

“Huh,” Barry said. He tried to imagine anyone being done with Clark and couldn’t quite. But then he shoved that thought away. 

“Actually I have a bit of a hard time with that,” Clark was saying. “Remembering that sexual orientation is a thing. It’s not actually much of an issue for Kryptonians, and you would think that being raised in Kansas I would have had that acculturated out of me, but apparently that’s biological.”

“Not much of an issue how?” Barry said, as Clark handed him back the blunt.

“Meaning Kryptonians don’t care much, one way or the other. It can make it hard to remember that other people do, quite a bit.”

“Oh,” Barry said. Not one of his smoother remarks. “Well, sure. That makes sense. You ever think the League has a higher than average per capita queer population?”

“I guess I never thought about it. There’s really just Diana, I guess.”

Barry was silent at that. Was Clark counting himself in or out? Or maybe he meant that Kryptonians didn’t have sexual orientation. And then. . . well. He had seen enough tabloid articles to know that Bruce played both sides of the field. Some of that was probably for show though. It was hard to tell, with Bruce, what was real and what was not. And then there was Hal. He was canny enough to know Hal fucked around with guys when he felt like it, but Hal thought he didn’t know, and would probably flip right the fuck out if he knew that Barry did, in fact, know. And then there was. . . himself, maybe, but that was entirely theoretical. He went back to studying the sky. “Do you have a favorite star?” he said after a bit. 

“Ah, the yellow ones,” Clark said, and Barry gave a laugh. Clark’s face crinkled in his warm smile. 

“Hey,” Barry said, knocking his knee against Clark’s. “I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

“Hmm.”

“Thank you. For. . . you know. For everything. For hanging out with me like this. Not just tonight. For being my friend. Not sure I would have made it through this past year without it.”

“I was always your friend, Barry.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know. But you do have a tendency to bogart the weed, hand it back.”

“Out of curiosity, does your metabolism allow you to feel any of this?”

“Nah, not a thing. Yours?”

“Nope.”

“Well this is just sad.”

“Yep.”

Barry hauled himself up. “Come on,” he said, slapping Clark’s leg. “Let’s go be sad on a sofa. This is killing my back.”

“We’re old.”

“Nah, we still got it. We’re still young and hip. Come on, let’s go paint the town.”

“By that I’m assuming you mean, let’s go eat chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and watch the game?”

“That is absolutely what I mean.”

“I knew there was a reason I liked you,” Clark said, getting up with a groan. “Hey, where are we, by the way?”

Barry looked around. “I dunno. Vancouver maybe?”

“That’s the last time I let you take the lead on a run. When we head back let’s—holy shit, what’s that?” 

“Where?” he said, following Clark’s finger, and then he felt the _whoosh_ of air that told him Clark had gotten the jump on him. “Oh, you asshole,” he called, and he laughed and sprang off into mid-air, letting the speed take him.

* * *

The first time something happened between them, it wasn’t anything dramatic. It was that night, in fact, the night they had gone on a run and smoked on a roof and come back home to eat ice cream and watch a game, and Clark had been standing in the kitchen musing about what was in the fridge, and Barry had come to stand beside him. Clark had shut the fridge door and then Barry was standing right there, and at first he hadn’t even been aware what Clark was doing – and maybe Clark hadn’t either, because it didn’t seem planned at all. Clark had just leaned closer, and Barry’s brain had said _huh I wonder why he’s doing that_ before all the lights had kicked on and the sirens had started screaming. Clark’s lips were an inch from his, and Barry had backpedaled so hard.

“I don’t—ah, that’s not me,” he said, and Clark hastily retreated. 

“Shit,” Clark said. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s—it’s fine, don’t worry about it, no big deal, let’s just—can we watch the game? I know I shouldn’t have, but I bet Hal a fifty on it, and I would love to stick it to his arrogant ass. He’s such a damn sore loser. Sore winner, for that matter,” he said, and he was babbling, he knew he was. But they watched the game and drank their beers and it was like the night of the gala, where he was determined just to keep his eyes forward and to stop his brain from thinking. And at the half Clark said he was tired, and had an early meeting, and really needed to get home, and Barry said sure, of course, that made sense, and Clark left, and Barry just sat on the sofa not even watching the game. Not even watching it. When he thought to look up again, a whole other show was on – he had zoned out through an entire game. 

After a while he went into the bathroom and just stood there, gripping the sink, head leaning against the mirror. And then he raised his head and looked in the mirror. 

“What the fuck,” he said to his reflection. “Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

He didn’t even stop to think. It was like waking up after long sleep; it was like standing under a douse of ice water. He turned on his heel and before he knew he was going to do it, he ran to Metropolis, ran right to Clark’s apartment, stood there at one in the fucking morning banging on the door like a maniac, bracing himself on the doorframe.

“Barry?” Clark said, wrenching the door open. “Are you all right? What’s wrong, are you—”

“It’s me,” Barry said. “You were right. It is me. I just—it’s me.”

Clark stood there in silence, and there was this blood-chilling moment when Barry read the verdict in that impassive face — _too late, too late_ — and then the door swung open. “You should probably come in,” he said. 

“Yeah,” Barry said. “Thanks.” And he walked in, combing his hands through his hair, suddenly aware he hadn’t put on anything other than the ratty tee shirt and jeans he had been wearing earlier. Clark’s apartment was nicer than he had imagined it. And all of a sudden he saw the last year more clearly, because how shitty was it that Clark knew his apartment, but he didn’t know Clark’s at all, other than where it was? Clark had been the one to make every gesture of friendship, Clark had been the one to go out of his way, and he. . .

“I can be a better friend than I have been,” Barry said. “I’ve been a shitty friend. All we do is talk about my problems, and I’ve been so fucking consumed with myself that I haven’t—fuck. I’m sorry. I can do better.”

“You’re a fine friend, Barry,” he said, and in that kindness Barry read his polite refusal. It only stood to reason. At a certain point Clark was gonna say yeah, thanks but no thanks. A solid year of being shut down and even Clark was eventually going to have enough. Barry nodded, hands on his hips, studying the tasteful kilim rug over by the surprisingly expensive looking stereo system. A turntable and everything. 

“That’s a nice system,” Barry said. 

“My ears are pretty sensitive, I need a nice one.”

“Yeah. That’s one way to put it.” Barry was just staring at the system, chewing on his lip. “So I really came here to ask if I could please have another chance?”

“Another chance at what?” Clark said softly. Barry met his eyes. 

“Another chance at you kissing me. If I could please have that.”

“That’s not something you have to want. That’s not what our friendship is about, and if you think you owe me that, or that—”

“I don’t think that. Clark. I don’t. I’m just asking for another chance. That’s all. And there’s. . . something you should know. The reason I. . . reacted the way I did. I mean, besides a fucking lifetime of massively internalized homophobia. My issue is, I don’t actually know. . . I don’t know how to do anything.”

Clark was frowning at him like he was not following. “How to do anything?”

“Clark. I have zero experience. That’s my issue.”

“Barry. This is not an entrance exam required kind of situation.”

“Well that’s too bad, I do pretty well on those.” And suddenly it occurred to him why Clark was just standing there, because tonight was a night of blinding revelations all over the place evidently. Clark was going to let him make a move if that was what he wanted, but Clark wasn’t going to push it again. 

Barry crossed to him, spread a hand on Clark’s chest. He watched Clark’s eyelids close at the contact, and he felt that same sharp thing in his middle, only it didn’t hurt this time, and he knew exactly what he needed to do, and he brushed his lips against Clark’s. Such an easy space to cross. They were the same height. And now Clark had uncrossed his arms, and he nudged his face against Barry’s, and did the same thing Barry had done – the slow gentle brush of lips. Something electric went down Barry’s spine, some small tangible thing. They were kissing, but not even with open mouth. Barry’s fingers curled around the back of Clark’s neck. He could feel the small soft hairs there, the warmth and firmness of his neck. 

“Hey there,” Barry said softly. 

“Hey there,” Clark said. This time when they kissed, Barry parted his lips, and he felt Clark’s mouth open to his, and what had been a small electric jolt before became a flood of heat and light and all Barry could think was _so that’s what that’s supposed to feel like._ Clark was tilting his head, leaning into Barry, and Barry’s hand traveled down that beautiful back to rest at the beautiful waist. With difficulty he pulled off, and he saw, in that half-instant he saw, the bleary stutter of Clark’s eyes as he came back to himself, and he knew Clark wanted him. Wanted him like he wanted Clark. The knowledge curled like a hot fist inside him. 

“Come sit down,” Clark murmured against his face, and led him to the sofa. 

That was all that he intended to happen that night – just the kissing. There wasn’t any move to take off clothes, and by common consent they kept their kisses slow and gentle. “Your pace here,” Clark whispered at one point, and Barry nodded.

“That’s not gonna be fast,” he whispered back. “And yes, I get the irony.”

Clark smiled, his hand stroking Barry’s jaw. “’S okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

Barry nodded, carding his fingers through that thick dark hair. He kissed Clark’s eyes, his forehead. “You’ve got that meeting,” he said. “And it’s like three in the morning. I need to let you get some sleep.”

“Mmm. I want us just to sleep here,” Clark said, pulling him closer. “But I might not be able to keep that promise about slow, if we do.”

“Oh yeah?” Barry murmured. “Tell me why that is.”

“Because I want you too much,” Clark breathed against his neck, and their kiss this time was hungrier, Clark’s fingers in his back were almost bruising. Barry pressed into him, pressing him down into the sofa, stretching on top of him, and for the first time their hips were pressing together too, and Clark groaned. Fucking groaned aloud at it, and Barry tilted that gorgeous mouth to his and slid his tongue against Clark’s. He knew Clark could feel how hard he was, like he could feel Clark’s bulge beneath his. He pulled his mouth off.

“Tell me this is okay,” he whispered.

“Fuck, Barry,” Clark moaned, which was probably a yes. They were slowly grinding as they kissed. It felt so fucking good. He wanted his fingers on skin, and his hand traveled inside Clark’s shirt. Clark’s hands were doing the same. He pressed into Clark and felt the pulse of his own cock, the heavy thrum of need. He had lost track of time; time wasn’t a thing that existed any more. He had only ever been on this sofa, his arms wrapped around the most beautiful man on the face of the planet. He had never been this achingly hard. Thank God, thank God he had been wearing the softest jeans he owned. His cock wanted, it wanted. Clark’s fingers were digging into his ass, caressing his ass, kneading it. Barry was rocking, rocking into Clark’s cock, and Clark was pressing up into him – his gorgeous lips parted now, his eyes on Barry. 

“Barry,” he said, his voice gone hoarse at the edges. “Barry, if you want to—to stop—”

In answer Barry ground into him harder, yanked his head back to suckle at his neck. The noise Clark made was not like anything he had heard before. They were fucking into each other now. Their kisses were clumsy, hungry. “Clark,” he managed. “I can’t—I’m gonna—”

“Fuck yes,” Clark panted, and Barry fucked into him, rocked right there on that sweet spot, and his orgasm soaked him, curled his spine, wrung his breath. Clark made a small noise and pulled Barry’s ass so hard, so hard down into him, and he could feel Clark’s body shaking under his, and knew Clark was coming too. They were biting at each other’s mouths, starving for it. Clark gave an unexpected jolt underneath him, and he felt the shaking start again.

“You okay?” Barry whispered, and Clark nodded.

“I just—I should have said that I—” but then his breath got choked off, and Barry realized he was coming _again_ , and yeah, why hadn’t he figured this, of course there would be some things about Kryptonian bodies that were a little different, and he was the one who had pushed it farther tonight than maybe Clark had been planning.

“Baby,” Barry whispered, and Clark’s arm tightened on his neck as he shook again. It was the hottest thing Barry had ever felt. He ground into Clark again, the last shudders of his own orgasm renewing, and held Clark through it. When he felt the tremors subside Barry raised his head. With shaking fingers he brushed the hair off Clark’s face, rested his forehead against Clark’s.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” Clark rasped, and Barry gave a slow grin. 

“I think the important thing to keep in mind here,” he said, with a nuzzle at the side of Clark’s face, “is that we kept all our clothes on. So that counts as slow.”

If he had thought Clark’s laugh was beautiful before, that was nothing to Clark’s laugh when he was lying on top of it, and Clark was sex-drunk, his pupils blown. “See this is why it’s a good idea to date the smart ones,” he said, wrapping his arms around Barry and holding him close. 

“We need to get cleaned up, this is romantic but disgusting,” Barry whispered after a bit, and Clark gave another small laugh.

“We could shower here if you want,” he said. “Or you could go back home. It’s fine either way.”

Barry propped up and looked at him. It was funny, because he had seen Clark after pitched battles against alien space demons and meteors and intergalactic supervillains, but somehow he had never looked as destroyed as he did right now, his hair sweaty at the edges, his eyes still a bit unfocused. “Can I stay,” Barry said.

“God please,” Clark moaned, and pulled Barry back to him, sealing their mouths together again. This kissing was different, because it was full of knowledge, and the want was still there, but deeper somehow, even hungrier. Because now they knew. Now they knew what this felt like. Now Barry knew, and he would never, never unknow it, not ever.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some really amazing art to accompany this chapter found [here](http://tajmahart.tumblr.com/post/182878772707/hal-jordan-has-a-plan-by-fabula-unica-fabularasa), by the talented [tajmahart](https://tajmahart.tumblr.com). (Art is spoiler-y for dialogue in this chapter, so probably best looked at after.)

“So my plan is this,” Hal said. “Because I think we can both agree, we need to end this abomination right here and now, before it gets any sicker and weirder than it already is.”

“Abomination?” Bruce said, lifting his brows. 

“You know what I mean. My plan is, you should put the moves on Clark.”

Bruce stared at him. “Put the moves on Clark,” he repeated. 

“Yes! Come on, stop acting like it’s that shocking. I see the tabloids, you like dick when you can get it. All you rich people are freaky like that.”

“Well you hypocritical little shit,” he said. 

“Look,” Hal said, leaning forward, pointing emphatically. “You’ve said it yourself. Our relationship as a team has to come before anything else, before any other relationships.”

“Fairly sure I’ve never said anything like that.”

“And it’s time to fight fire with fire here. Come on, you know I’m right. All it would take is for you to go to Clark, and put your moves on him, and _bam!_ that would be the end of his interest in Barry, you know it would. He’s probably just been waiting for you all along, right? Come on, it’s inevitable. Of course Supes and Bats are going to bang sooner or later. So I’m just saying, why not make it sooner instead of later, and kill two birds with one stone? Listen, if you’re not sure how it should go down, I can totally help you out there, it’s not really my field of expertise but I have some moves that are golden no matter what, and Clark’s probably easy anyway.”

Bruce was still propped on his hand studying him. “You know it’s funny,” he mused. “All along I thought I was just annoyed by you, but no, it turns out I actually hate you.”

“Same here Spooky, one hundred percent, but you gotta focus here. We have to look beyond our differences and unite in the nobility of our common cause.”

“I see. The nobility of our cause being, the destruction of the happiness of our two closest friends?”

“Yes! Exactly. And see, you admit it, you know they’re together. And that’s another thing, they know this is fucking weird, why else would they be hiding it like this? Even they know how fucked up this is.”

“Yes, I don’t know why they were concerned. So, I’m curious. Why do you think this plan – if I can use that word for what is more accurately a manifestation of advanced neurosis – but why do you think this would work, exactly? Because you believe that Clark is somehow secretly attracted to me?”

“Yes! Yes, that is exactly why.”

“I see. Based on what evidence?”

“Based on—based on _science_ , all right? That shit is just science. I mean look. Evidently, Clark likes cock when he can get it. Probably some freaky Kryptonian shit going on there. And to anyone who genuinely likes cock, you are catnip. I mean, look at you, and look at Barry. Hands down you’ve got it all over him. You’ve got the muscles thing, and the dark broody thing, and you’re already cased in leather, you’re practically starring in your own gay BDSM porno every time you step out your front door. I mean come on. And gay dudes fuck around all the time, it’s not like they’re programmed for monogamy or something. It will work, trust me.”

“What a revolting little homophobe you are.”

“Look I don’t understand why you’re not more on board with this. Do you somehow _like_ that they’re together? Do you not want their little freak show to be _over_ already?”

“Strangely, I am somehow able to carry on with my life as though it has nothing to do with me.”

“Well that is exactly where you’re _wrong_ ,” Jordan said, kicking back his chair and resuming his pacing. “That’s where you’re wrong my friend. It has everything to do with you, because you think Clark is going to be your friend after this? He’s not. Sure, he might say everything is gonna be just the same, but it won’t be. You’ll want to hang out, but all of a sudden he’ll be bringing Barry everywhere he goes. Bang, instant third wheel, and that’s the end of you spending any time with your best friend, that’s the end of it. And see, it’s not like when he was married, it’s not like that, because Iris—because Lois, I mean, she had her own life and her own interests, right, but when you’re dating someone you share so much of your life with, when you’re dating someone who’s actually _in_ this life with you, then there’s no space there for you to have your own friends, there’s _nothing_ but this other person, and that person is there _all the time_ , and it’s the end of you having any actual friendship with them, it’s the end of you ever seeing them at all, to them you’re just worthless, you’re just expendable, you’re just, you’re just—just. . .”

He stuttered to a halt, and it was curious, Bruce could track the exact moment when Jordan evidently began to hear himself. “What I mean is. . .” he said, and stopped, hands on his hips, frozen, staring into space. “I mean. . .”

He looked over at Bruce, who was still just watching him, and wondering how many days it had been since the man had slept. The red rims of his eyes had red rims. He had been on assignment out of the system for several weeks, he knew that much. 

“Shit,” Jordan said. He looked around the Cave like he was not entirely sure how he had gotten there. 

Bruce sighed and reached for the drawer to his left. He pulled out the bottle of Macallan-Glenlivet ’79, and two glasses, and set them on the monitor table beside him. Lantern was still just standing there.

“Holy fuck,” he said, running his hands through his hair. He sat heavily, and Bruce poured a finger of the scotch and slid it toward him. Jordan’s head was in his hands. 

“I really need to get some sleep,” he muttered.

“Yes,” Bruce agreed. 

“Can you please just. . . can you just ignore everything I’ve said?”

“Never a problem. Drink up.”

Jordan looked at the glass next to him in surprise, and then downed it with a stiff wrist. He coughed. “Holy mother of _shit_ , that’s good,” he gasped. “What the fuck is it?”

Wordlessly Bruce turned the label to him. “That actually means nothing to me. Is that expensive?”

“Mid-range, for a collector’s whisky.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning it’s under five thousand.”

Jordan was blinking at him. “For one bottle of hooch.”

“Yes. So you might want to drink it slower next time.”

“So noted,” he said, and extended his glass for Bruce to fill again. “Maybe. . . maybe I’m coming down with something.”

“Maybe you need some sleep.”

“Yeah.” He rubbed at his eyes. “Maybe so.”

Bruce savored his whisky, propping his legs up on a storage crate. “About Barry and Clark,” he said, and Jordan winced. 

“Yeah, it was. . . it was stupid, forget it. I mean, what the fuck business is it of mine, right?”

“Mm,” Bruce said. “Well, granted. But I’m curious, so indulge me. Is there really no part of you that sees the logic of it? That sees two thoughtful, intelligent individuals with a great deal in common who find that they enjoy each other’s company and even find each other desirable? What exactly is it that fills you with such inchoate rage?”

Jordan was studying his whiskey. “I dunno,” he said. “Don’t you ever get tired of being alone?”

It was Bruce’s turn to study the bottle. “I’m used to it,” he said.

“I get that Barry’s gonna end up with someone. I get that. He’s all the things you said he is, and Clark is too. They’re. . . they’re good people, you know? Nice people. People that other people want to be with. They’re the people you bring home to meet your parents.”

“Unlike you and me,” Bruce said, and Hal knocked back some more of the Macallan. 

“Unlike you and me,” he agreed. “And you know what else?”

“Hmm.”

“I’m jealous.”

“Jordan, that is not the revelation you think it is.”

“No, I mean, I’m jealous of one specific thing. They don’t have to hide any part of who they are. Like ever. At all. I get laid plenty, and I’m betting you do too, but I don’t get. . . what they get, you know? It’s always someone who just sees. . . one part of who I am, and that’s fine, it’s not like I’m in the market for more, it would just be nice to. . . I dunno, have the option, I guess.”

Bruce swirled the amber liquid in his glass and contemplated it. Once, he would have said Selina saw and wanted both parts of him. Loved them, even. But it had been untrue. He had thought by showing her Bruce, he was bringing her into the deepest and truest part of his life. But all she had ever wanted was Batman. There was no denying that when it came to Bruce, she was faintly bored. When they had been in bed, she had only ever called him Batman. He had thought it was playful.

“Yes,” was all he said. “What’s wrong at work?”

“What?”

“Earlier. You said you were under a lot of pressure from the Corps. What’s going on?”

“Oh.” Hal was rotating his empty glass. “It’s nothing. Same old shit. A lot of pressure to take assignments that would make it impossible for me to be there for the League. And impossible to keep my job on Earth. So yeah, second verse, same as the first. Except before I had some friends in the Guardians, and now I’ve got fewer friends, and. . . yeah. It’s a thing.”

“I was under the impression you were well respected in the Corps.”

“For a human,” he said, reaching for the bottle, and when he did Bruce noticed the small wince.

“Are you injured?”

“Nothing much. I took a hit in the back last week, got it stitched up back on Oa. Still just sore I guess.” 

Bruce frowned. “Let me take a look.”

“It’s fine, I don’t—really, trust me, it’s fine. Pretty sure the doctors on Oa know what they’re doing.”

“Come on, get your lazy ass up Jordan. I’ve got a fully stocked medical bay here and I do actually know my way around it. Up you go.” And he rose and crossed to the med bay, flicking on lights above the examining table. Jordan was still muttering, but he was at least shuffling over and hoisting himself up on to the table. He pulled his shirt off, and Bruce walked to the back of the table to take a look. He spread a careful hand above the angry inflamed wound.

It wasn’t a stitching, it was a butchering. The edges were puffed and red, and there was fluid seeping out around the sutures – nasty, thick-colored ooze. God damn whoever had done this to him. Bruce stared at it thoughtfully before he trusted himself to speak. He gave a careful press to the edge of the jagged cut, and caught Jordan’s quickly suppressed intake of breath. There was heat coming off it. 

“Did they give you any meds?”

“No, they said it would be fine. And it’s mostly okay. Like I said, just sore.”

Bruce studied the long wicked slice up the man’s left side. He wondered what weapon had done this. He wondered what kind of medical attendants stitched up a wound like this with a few poorly placed sutures and called it a day. He kept his hand on Jordan’s back, mainly so he could feel the flinch and bunch of muscle there whenever the man tried to move. He reached his other hand to Jordan’s forehead. It wasn’t just lack of sleep that had driven that manic state. 

“What are you—”

“Hold still. You’ve got fever. Hal, this wound is infected. I’m going to need to open it and drain it, pack it with antibiotics, re-stitch it, and you’ll need to start some oral antibiotics – possibly IV, depending on what Alfred thinks when he gets back.”

“That. . . why?”

“Why is it infected? Or why am I saving your life?”

“Well both actually. Look, I went to the doctors, they took care of me fine, just let it—”

“They didn’t,” Bruce said, more harshly than he had intended. “Hal, they butchered you. This wound is a nightmare, and you’ve got to be in pain from it.”

“It’s just that they don’t know lots about human physiology,” Jordan said, but his head was down, his voice muffled. 

“Then you don’t let them touch you again. You come to Leslie, or you come to me. But those doctors do not lay a hand on you again. Christ.” He swabbed the numbing serum around the wound, and started in with the unstitching, taking his time to let it drain. He kept applying the numbing agent, because Jordan wouldn’t let him know when it was hurting. He worked as quickly as possible, and he knew his stitching was deft, though it didn’t rise to the level of Alfred’s work. The best-case scenario was a nasty curve of a scar he would carry forever. 

When he was finished he swabbed the whole area again, and dressed it with thick bandages to protect it. He ran the tape around Jordan’s waist, secured it in place. “Thank you,” Jordan said, looking abashed. Bruce let his hand rest on the man’s shoulder. He thought of what he had said earlier, about being alone. For better or worse, Bruce worked in the field with people he trusted to have his back. It didn’t sound like things were that way for Jordan in the Corps right now. It didn’t make his fixation on Barry’s love life any more excusable, but it made it understandable, at least. There was only so much alone a man could take, and Bruce knew that better than anyone. 

“I’m going to give you some meds,” he said. “It’s a broad-spectrum antibiotic, along with a painkiller, so it’s going to wipe you out for a bit. I’d like you to stay and get some sleep here. All right?”

Jordan had turned his head. “I’m fine,” he said. “I don’t need—I’m fine.”

Bruce’s hand was still on his shoulder. “For God’s sake. Will you let someone have your back for once?”

Jordan glanced at him then, and then nodded, a hasty frowning nod. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay. That—yeah.”

“Good.” Bruce gave the shoulder a rub. “Now, swallow both of these,” he said, handing off the meds. “And there’s a bedroom just behind you, through that door there.”

Hal turned. “You just pointed to a wall of solid rock.”

“It opens, trust me.” 

“This is a serial killer’s lair.”

“There is some overlap in aesthetic, I’ll grant you. Come on, up you go.”

Bruce led the way to the bedroom, and the rock wall slid back at the pressure of his hand on the sensor pad. It was not a room he usually let people inside, but it seemed like the better option than taking him upstairs. Besides, this was quieter. The quiet was why he had this room in the first place. Sealed off behind the rock like this, the only light controlled by the panel, it was sometimes the only way he could find any sleep at all. He brought the dim lights up on the spartan room, with only a wide bed against the wall.

“I guess you’re not claustrophobic, huh,” Jordan said. 

“There’s a bathroom through there. Towels and everything you need, but I wouldn’t advise getting that wet for at least a week. Baths, no showers, and try to keep it out of the water. I can have Alfred bring a tray later on, if you’re hungry.”

“That. . . sounds fantastic, actually. Look at me, an all-expenses-paid at the Wayne Resort.”

“Don’t get comfortable, it’s just for today.”

“Yeah Bats, moving into your house is the dream of my life, you found me out. I don’t guess one of these panels slides back to a 60-inch screen, so I can Netflix a little?”

“This room is for sleeping, not recreation. Lie down and try to get some rest and let those meds work.” He rested a hand on Jordan’s shoulder again, and then Jordan’s head turned to his and was startlingly close. He had not thought they were standing so close. Jordan looked at the hand on his shoulder, then back at Bruce. He was suddenly aware of the feel of Jordan’s bare warm muscle underneath his hand, the firmness of it. 

“Yeah, I could do that,” Jordan said. “But maybe I could also use some company.”

Somehow he had never noticed that Jordan’s eyes were quite so inescapably large. He swallowed, kept his voice just as low. “You’ve had quite a bit to drink, on what is probably an empty stomach, not to mention those meds,” he said, but Jordan gave a low laugh.

“Because I’d have to be high as balls to mack on you? Nah I’m good, I promise.” And he shifted, so he was even closer. Bruce ought to move away. Somehow he was not moving away. Jordan’s hand was traveling down his arm, his fingers brushing at Bruce’s. Bruce watched his hand. “Come on, Bats,” he whispered. “Don’t you want to know what it’s like?”

He could have said, _define it._ But he knew. He knew exactly what Jordan meant. Jordan’s shoulder was leaning against his. His bare skin felt super-heated against Bruce’s shirt, like it would burn through it. He told himself it was the fever. 

“Didn’t think you were looking for a hatefuck,” Bruce said steadily, his eyes on Jordan’s.

“Didn’t think that’s what I was offering.”

“It wasn’t that good a stitching job.”

“You done?” Jordan said. 

“Yes,” Bruce said.

“Good.” And Hal leaned closer, brushing his mouth against Bruce’s, which opened to him. 

It figured that the man would kiss like he talked – everywhere and all at once and all over the place. It was a little difficult to keep track of, because so many things were happening at once: Jordan’s wicked tongue, his fingers on the back of Bruce’s neck, his chest pressed to Bruce. “Hey Bruce,” he murmured. “You could also just tell me to fuck off.”

“What’s the matter, you worried your appeal is too great for me to resist?”

“I am smoking hot, that’s just facts.”

“You’re a narcissistic jackass.”

“You sure know how to get laid, Bats,” he said, a curl of smirk in the corner of his mouth. This time Bruce leaned in for the kiss, and bent that smart mouth to his, and got his arms wrapped fully around Jordan’s body, which annealed to his. Jordan’s fingers were back in his hair. It was possible Jordan liked his hair. Any number of things were possible. That was what kissing Jordan felt like – like the mathematical range of possibilities had expanded under his feet, like there were previously undiscovered equations unspooling on the walls and floor and ceiling all around him, and any one of those equations was a universe of possibilities, and he could walk through any of them, any of them at all. 

Jordan was tugging at his shirt, pulling it over his head, pulling at the waist of his pants and undressing him. He let him do it. Let Jordan strip him down. “Holy mother of fuck,” Jordan murmured, running his fingers over Bruce’s chest, skimming down his sides. His eyes met Bruce’s, and there was no smart-ass in them. “You’re fucking beautiful, Bruce,” he said, and something in his voice made Bruce drop his eyes. 

There was nothing athletic about the sex, probably because of that freshly-stitched back. “Don’t lie on it,” Bruce said, pulling him on top of him after they had made it to the bed. 

“Kay,” Hal said, bending to kiss him again. Bruce was trying to keep track of the kisses, but he couldn’t – they kept getting away from him at unexpected moments. And they didn’t stop kissing, was the thing, even after they had gotten all their clothes off. Jordan straddled him, riding him, letting their cocks slide and rub together, their hands woven together. It was a long slow ride, probably made longer by the scotch and painkillers, but Bruce liked it that way. 

He tracked the moment when Hal’s head tipped back, when his thrusts became more erratic, and Bruce closed a hand around their cocks, tugging gently. He didn’t have lube, so it was not nearly as expert as he would have liked. But it was enough to get Jordan off. That cock was as firm and warm and slick as the rest of him, as delicious in his hands as Jordan’s ass. He had a wild moment of wanting to taste it, to see if that cock would taste as warm and golden as the rest of him, but he needed to cum desperately, and Jordan cried out.

“Fuck—Bruce, fuck, fuck,” he moaned, and Bruce’s hands were coated in hot and white, and he fucked into Jordan’s cum, shooting his own load with a heavy groan into his fingers and Jordan’s, which came to wrap clumsily around his. 

Jordan slowly wilted on top of him, bending his forehead to Bruce’s. Bruce pulled him closer for another kiss, realizing too late he was getting cum in the man’s hair. “Sorry,” he mumbled, and Hal gave a soft laugh. Of all the stupid, stupid things. Had he really just stripped off all his clothes and gotten off with Hal Jordan, of all the boneheaded idiotic – God damn everything. 

It was because Jordan had made it feel like a dare. Had practically dared him. He wasn’t going to back down in front of Jordan. And any second now Jordan was going to start mocking him for it; was probably planning the text to all his friends and relations about it right now. Had probably hit record on his phone and would make Bruce’s sex noises his universal ring tone. God damn the man.

But then Bruce froze, because Jordan had curled up in the crook of his arm. Just curled there, his head on Bruce’s chest, his leg still sprawled across Bruce’s body. Bruce stared wide-eyed at the ceiling. He didn’t know what to do with his arm, so he held Jordan to him with it. Put his arm around Jordan, who burrowed deeper. He could feel the deepening and evening of Jordan’s breath as he relaxed into Bruce’s body. Of all things. 

“Why don’t you have friends among the Guardians anymore?” Bruce asked after a few minutes.

“Hmm?”

“You said you had fewer friends among the Guardians now. What happened?”

“Oh.” His voice sounded sleepy. “I had two friends really. They were the ones who supported having a human Lantern. Might come as a bit of a shock, or maybe not to anyone who’s read a history book, but humans are not what you would call well-respected in the galaxy.”

“So I gathered.”

“Yeah. Anyway, the ones who did support me aren’t there anymore. They died.”

“I thought the Guardians were immortal.”

“Yeah. Not really clear on that. Maybe they’re just in like semi-permanent retirement. I think it’s like. . . elves or something.”

“Elves?”

“Yeah. You know how like the elves, after they live for thousands of years, they just find it hard to give a shit about anything anymore, and they go live on some island way the hell out in the ocean? Maybe it’s like that. Maybe they aren’t really dead, maybe they just stopped giving a shit.”

“Tolkien,” Bruce said. 

“Hm?”

“That’s Tolkien’s lore you’re quoting.”

Hal shifted, re-settled. “Mm hm. Are you telling me that because you think I haven’t read the books, or because you think I can’t read?”

Bruce started stroking his head, mainly to get him to shut up, but it did the trick. Jordan leaned into it like a cat. His hair was astonishingly nice – thick and soft, and it surprised him to realize he had thought about touching it before. But he had. 

“Hal,” Bruce said softly. 

“Mm.”

“Do you think it’s possible that there is a faction that’s trying to kill you?”

The silence was his answer. Jordan knew there was. Bruce felt the wash of cold all the way down his body, from the tips of his fingers in Hal’s hair to his feet that were tangled with Hal’s – the constriction of every capillary in his body. That wound on Hal’s side was no accident. Maybe even its clumsy repair was no accident. Things knocked in Bruce’s chest: rage, and fear, and something else. “I’m on leave right now,” Hal whispered. “I’ve got like a week off. I’ll figure it out. I just don’t wanna think about it right now, okay?”

And Bruce shut his eyes and pulled Hal closer, tighter, and Hal’s arms tightened on him too. They stayed like that, not talking anymore, until he felt the loosening of Hal’s limbs that told him he had drifted off into sleep. He kept holding him though. 

He extricated after a while, when he was sure Jordan was asleep, and slipped his clothes back on. He returned to his scans in the Cave, and looked up at some point to discover Alfred had brought him food, and continued working. He stopped when the numbers no longer made any sense, and when the images on the scans were swimming and shifting in front of him. He needed to go upstairs and get some sleep. But that wasn’t what he wanted to do. 

He told himself it was because he needed to have more conversation with Jordan about things in the Corps. It might be that Jordan was not correctly assessing the situation, not seeing as clearly as he ought to. He should talk to him about it some more. So instead of going upstairs, Bruce went back to the bedroom Hal was sleeping in, and let the door quietly whoosh shut behind him. Jordan was sprawled insensible across the wide bad, and Bruce took off his clothes and climbed in beside him. He roused then, and shifted over, and flung a heavy arm across Bruce. 

“Hey,” he mumbled drowsily. His body felt sleep-warm, but no longer feverish. 

“Go back to sleep,” Bruce murmured. 

“Mm. You gonna sleep too?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” And he curled closer, like he had before, his head on Bruce’s chest.

“You’re more of a snuggler than I’d thought,” Bruce said, and Hal breathed a soft laugh. Bruce began a tentative stroke of his arm. 

“A week,” Bruce said.

“Hm?”

“You said you had a week’s leave.”

“Mm hm.”

“Why don’t you spend it on vacation somewhere?”

“Yeah, I’ll call my travel agent in the morning, see what the Disney package is running.” 

“Where would you go, if you could go anywhere?”

“Mm.” He felt Hal stretch underneath the covers, and curl back into him. He kept being reminded of a cat. “Dunno. Someplace warm. Tired of being cold. Space is really fucking cold by the way.”

Bruce went back to stroking his hair. “What about an island in the South Pacific?”

“Okay, sure. Bali Hai here I come.”

Bruce was silent. Hal was slipping back into sleep. He should say nothing more. It was a stupid impulse. Maybe the worst one he’d ever had. It would be an irreparable mistake. “Come on vacation with me,” was what came out of his mouth, because apparently his mouth had staged a sort of permanent rebellion from control by his brain, and was operating entirely on its own. 

Hal propped up on an elbow, and was looking at him. A sleepy squint aimed at him in the dim light. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Well, that’s not normal.”

“Do you give a fuck?” was what his mouth said next, because his mouth had evidently declared itself a sovereign nation. It would be issuing its own passports and postal legislation now, negotiating its own foreign policy. 

“Not really. I’m just saying, normally the follow-up to a fifteen-minute fuck is not, come on vacation with me. I’m not objecting, just pointing out the obvious.”

“It’s just a week. I have a place that I think would be adequate. It’s remote, and it’s warm. You could rest, and that wound could heal.”

“Mm hmm. And in addition to all the resting and wound-healing, what else might we be doing, on this hypothetical island in the South Pacific?”

“Oh the island is entirely thetical. And as for activities, I don’t know, I thought scrabble, rummy, the usual. If we got bored with those we might consider fucking each other senseless.”

He expected Jordan to make a joke, or at least to crack a wry smile. But he didn’t. He was just steadily looking at Bruce, like he was sifting past everything Bruce was saying and weighing something else. He had never thought of the Lantern’s gaze as uncomfortable, but those brown eyes had a way of making it impossible to look away. Hal was still studying him. 

“And at the end of the week, we go our separate ways?” he said.

“Sure,” Bruce said. 

“We never talk about it again?”

“I suppose I could have one of the Martians wipe our memories if you’d like.”

“Well that might be a problem,” Hal said, leaning back and folding his arms under his head. Bruce thought about correcting him to remove pressure from his stitches, but this was probably not the moment. 

“How so?”

“Because I’m pretty sure I’m gonna want to remember what you sound like with my cock up your ass coming your fucking brains out, Bats, that’s why,” he said with a lazy grin.

There was a smart-ass comeback to that somewhere, he was sure of it. Probably it was lurking somewhere behind Jordan’s tongue, so he bent to find it, his mouth hungry on Jordan’s, which rose to meet his, fingers laced on the back of his neck, hungry as he was.


	4. Four Months Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The acknowledged lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged were silent."

“Okay,” Barry said. “Okay. We should maybe review the conversational topics.”

Clark rolled his eyes and continued to stir the onions. “I really don’t think that’s necessary,” he said.

“Oh yeah? Well newsflash, it is. It’s in everybody’s best interest tonight if we can just steer clear of certain hot-button topics that are likely to ignite conflict, all right? I just think, we should have some clear conversational parameters in mind.”

“Barry, you’re over-thinking this. Stop having an anxiety attack in my kitchen. Here, what do you think this needs?” And he extended a bit of his vegetable concoction on a spoon to Barry, who licked it tentatively. “Don’t _lick_ it, it’s not rat poison. Take a bite.”

Barry dutifully swallowed, and frowned thoughtfully. “How much cayenne did you put in there?”

“Too much, isn’t it. I knew it was too much. Dammit.”

“It’s fine, just use a little of the coriander to balance it. Not too much though. ‘S good though. You’re a great cook, babe.”

“I am, in fact. Not that Hal’s going to eat any of it. We should’ve picked up some Hot Pockets at the store.”

“See? That is exactly what I mean,” Barry said. “That is exactly the sort of asshole snarky remark Bruce would make, and you’ve just internalized all his assholery over the years, and now tonight is going to be a disaster.”

“Bar. Please, for the love of all that is holy, relax. I was kidding, you know I love Hal. Tonight is not going to be a disaster, it’s going to be a pleasant evening with our two closest friends, and we are going to have a good time.”

“Our two closest friends who happen to loathe and despise each other.”

“Despise is such a strong word,” Clark said, considering the spice cabinet. 

“Yeah, well, you’re nervous about it too. You’re a nervous over-seasoner. I can gauge your level of anxiety from the state of the cauliflower,” he said, and Clark laughed. 

“I’m nervous about my cauliflower, not about Bruce and Hal.”

“Hmph,” Barry said. “Maybe I’ve just got more years’ experience of Hal than you do. Listen, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Hm,” Clark said, measuring out the coriander with a careful eye. 

“Star Labs is opening a second facility. A facility in Metropolis, in fact. They got clearance on their contract with the Metropolis PD last week, and it’s going to be announced in just a few days.”

“Really. I don’t guess this means you’re going to be in Metropolis a little more, maybe visiting to check up on things?”

Barry leaned against the kitchen counter, watching Clark work. “Well,” he said. “The thing is. It’s going to be a much smaller facility, with a lot fewer resources. And the MPD drove a much harder contract for forensics work than the CCPD did, so salaries are going to be a lot less generous. Like, a lot a lot. But if I want an admin position, it’s been made clear to me that I would have first crack at it.”

Clark turned from the vegetables and regarded him gravely. “Do you want that position?” he said. 

“Yeah. I do. If that’s something that would be okay with you. The only thing that’s been holding me back is that the money is an issue, and the cost of living in Metropolis is higher anyway.”

“Idea,” Clark said, licking his spoon. “This is, you may have noticed, a very spacious apartment. There’s definitely room for two people. And if you moved in here, you wouldn’t have any rent expenses. So. . . if that makes your decision easier, there’s that.”

“You think we should move in together.”

“I do,” Clark said, returning to his vegetables. 

“Well,” Barry said. “It would be an admin position, so it would definitely be a move up for me in that way, even if it weren’t financially.”

“Well then, as long as it makes good career sense,” Clark said.

“Clark. You know I’m thinking about a lot more than that.”

“No, I just can’t help but notice you haven’t had much to say about the moving in together idea.”

“Clark please look at me.”

Clark turned off the burner and wiped his hands, tossing the towel on the counter. “All right,” he said. 

“Is this what you want?” Barry said. “Is this really what you want – me in your space every day, here when you come home every night?”

“No,” Clark said. “What I want, is a life where you and I never leave this apartment, and where we can stay in bed all day every day, and where I don’t have to come home to you at night because I’ve never left in the first place. Maybe install a minifridge within reach of the bed. That’s what I actually want. But this would be a really, really close second.”

Barry gave a rueful smile. “I think in order to get that life, one of us would have to win the lottery. Or, you know, be Bruce.”

“Deflection number two,” Clark said.

“Baby. I’m not deflecting, I’m just trying to give you space to make sure this is what you want. Because hell yes, I want that too, are you kidding me? When I found out it was a possibility last week – I’ve had a hard time thinking about anything else, every minute since then. I was gonna wait until later tonight to talk about it, but since the probability is you and I won’t be speaking to each other after this dinner party, I thought I should bring it up now.”

“Just because Bruce and Hal don’t get along, it doesn’t have anything to do with us. Let them be the giant man-babies they are all night long, I don’t care. Hand me that corkscrew, will you?”

Barry dug around in the drawer, refraining from comment about the lack of organization in Clark’s kitchen drawers. That was going to be one of the first things he tackled when he moved in though. Well that and the bathroom cabinets. Whoever thought Clark’s brain was highly organized had never spent much time around the man. 

“You know at some point I’m telling Bruce you called him a man-baby,” he said, emerging with some battered and rusted bit of equipment that might have been a corkscrew, or might have been a Civil War amputation winch. The first thing he was getting them was a subscription to the Williams-Sonoma catalog.

“It’s not the epithet he would object to, it’s that I lumped him in with Hal. Did you buy this wine? This is some very nice wine.”

“Yeah, I only got one bottle though. Bruce asked what he could bring and I said wine and bread, so I’m hoping we score something really excellent from the Wayne cellars. And maybe something from one of those fancy French bakeries across the bay.”

“Nicely done. Did Hal ask what he could bring?”

“I told him ice.”

Clark laughed aloud, and poured two glasses of the Riesling. He handed one to Barry. “So,” he said. “Are we toasting something tonight, or not?”

Barry lifted his glass. “To the impending re-organization of every drawer, cabinet space, and closet in this otherwise extremely lovely apartment,” he said. 

“Oh God,” Clark said.

“And to spending every second I can with the man I love in ways I didn’t know human beings could love,” he said, and the glass had been whooshed out of his hand before he had finished his sentence. Clark’s arms were around him, and their kiss was gentle, as soft and hesitant almost as it had been the first time. Barry sank into it, into the unbearable sweetness of Clark’s mouth, of Clark’s hands as they began to roam around to his ass.

“Hey, let’s call them and tell them not to come,” Barry whispered.

“Too late. But we’ve still got time before they come. Let’s lie down a bit,” he said, nuzzling at Barry’s neck.

“What we’ve got time for, is figuring out what we’re going to say to them.”

Clark raised his head. “What we’re going to say to them about what?”

“I’ve been thinking about this. I think the thing to be is direct.”

Clark was frowning. “Direct about what?”

“I think I should say, Hal, Bruce, thank you for coming tonight, but I was hoping we could talk about—”

“Bruce will be on the stairwell before you finish that sentence.”

“Okay what about this then. Hal, Bruce – Clark and I love spending time with both of you, and we’re hoping that tonight is the start of a better relationship between the two of you, and—”

“Bruce will be down the block.”

“You have a better idea?”

“My idea is, we don’t talk about it. We eat our food and drink our wine and nobody talks about anything.”

“At all?”

“Sports. And maybe politics. No, politics is safe, since Ollie’s not here to call Bruce a fascist. Could we go back to making out?”

“That’s the best idea of all,” Barry murmured, and wrapped Clark in his arms.

* * *

The evening was pleasant and enjoyable and completely uneventful, at least until it all went to hell. 

“An 82 Mouton Rothschild,” Bruce said, handing it off to Barry after he had shown him in. “And I supplemented with a 2015, but it was a magnificent vintage, and I think they pair nicely.”

“Wow,” Barry said. 

“And here are two baguettes from Chez Arnaud, with a small vial of niter kibbeh to go along with it – that’s Ethiopian spiced butter, with cardamom and nutmeg, some garlic and fenugreek as well. Clark, whatever you’re cooking smells magnificent.”

“Here you go asshole,” Hal muttered, shoving the ice at him. 

But Barry took it as a good sign that they had arrived together, because at least they’d managed to travel to Metropolis without killing each other, so maybe that was progress. Barry bustled around getting everybody drinks, and Clark was being the gracious host, asking Hal about things in the Corps, drawing him out a bit so he would forgive Barry for the ice. After a while Hal drifted over to examine Clark’s music and book collection, and Bruce stayed in the kitchen to watch Clark cook and talk to him, so Barry took the opportunity to corner Hal a bit.

“Hey,” he said. “I just wanted to say thanks for being here tonight.”

Hal straightened and frowned. “Why wouldn’t I, Bar?”

“Well, you know,” he gestured toward the kitchen. “I realize an evening spent in Bruce’s company is not high on your list of ways to spend three hours of your life, so I just wanted to say, I appreciate it, is all.”

Hal gave a short laugh. “Yeah, well, no thanks necessary. Believe me. Clark has a nice place.”

“Yeah, he does. Or I guess I should say. . . we do. We will.”

Hal’s eyebrows lifted. “You’re kidding me.”

“I’m not. It’s not public knowledge or anything like that yet, but. . . yeah. That’s a thing that’s happening.”

Hal grinned. “That’s awesome Bar, congratulations.”

“Yeah? I thought you might be a little, well – I mean, I know this is not something you’ve had an easy time with, and I just wanted to—”

“Bar. You’re happy. That’s all I need to know. And Clark is an amazing guy. If I ever made you feel anything different, that was just me going through my own shit and being an asshole about it, like I do. Really. I’m happy for you guys.”

“You are.”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be? For real Bar, good for you.”

“Thank you,” Barry said, and he gripped Hal’s shoulder, shook it slightly. “Thanks man. And hey, sincerely, I hope that someday you get the same sort of happiness. No really, I do. I know you’re not much for romance and all that, and actually before Clark I probably would have said the same thing about me, but I’m telling you, you gotta try some of this love thing. It really is the shit, people are not lying.”

Hal gave another short laugh. “Yeah, well, guess I’ll have to take your word on that Bar. One question though, about you and Clark, and it’s a serious one. Like, for real. Does he love you right? I’m serious. Does he?”

Barry grinned. “Yeah, Hal. He does, I promise.”

“Good, because there’s absolutely no way I can kick Superman’s ass, so he better be treating you right. No wait wait wait, one other thing,” he said, grabbing Barry’s arm. “So I’ve been thinking about this one. You and Clark, you’re. . . you know, right?”

“I. . . have no idea.”

“You and Clark are doing the do, I have to assume, on a fairly regular basis, right?”

“I am a little worried about where this is heading.”

“And the thing is, it’s you and Clark, right? So on the one hand I have to assume we are talking about the world’s most vanilla sex TM, but also, it’s like. . . it’s the Flash and Superman, yeah? And that means that you guys have the capability to get up to some fairly freaky shit when it comes time to travel to pound-town, if you know what I mean.”

“I really, really wish I didn’t.”

“So come on, you can tell me. What’s the freakiest shit you guys have ever gotten up to?”

“Harold. You cannot possibly believe I am going to tell you that.”

“Holy shit it’s buck wild, isn’t it.”

“Hal—”

“I can tell by your face it is! You have the worst poker face in the history of the world. Jesus Christ. That is simultaneously the sickest and the hottest thing I have ever heard.”

“Why do you take everything beautiful and turn it into something filthy?”

“Because that’s what God put me on the face of this earth to do, Bartholomew.” 

Barry sighed deeply, and Hal put an arm around him, slapping him on the back. “Plus,” he said, “Ollie’s not here tonight, I gotta pick up his slack. What’s a man gotta do to get an actual drink around here instead of all this rich boy swill?”

So against his better judgment Barry opened up the scotch, even though he was not at all sure that liquoring Hal up when he was around Bruce was the best idea. But they seemed to be getting along all right, much to Barry’s surprise. Mostly they were just ignoring each other, but that was fine too. Barry worked hard at keeping the dinner conversation on approved topics only, and steering it quickly away from any topic on which it looked like Hal and Bruce might interact at all. Barry chatted along lustily about things at Star Labs, and recent cases he had worked, and Clark chimed in with happenings at the Planet, though that veered into dangerous territory when Bruce remarked on the recent editorial staff changes at the Planet and how those were driven by the corporate merger, and Hal made some remark about Wayne Industries owning the entire fucking face of the globe. But then Barry interjected that it was no fair taking all Ollie’s lines when he wasn’t here, and Hal had laughed, and the moment had passed. Bruce hadn’t seemed perturbed by the exchange though, and hadn’t even needled Hal back, but had just calmly continued to sip his wine. 

Things skated into the danger zone after dinner, though. Clark and Barry were in the kitchen working on the dishes, and Barry had thought Hal was in the living room rifling through more of Clark’s things while Bruce was out on the balcony, but then he had glanced up and they were both out on the balcony, together, and they appeared to be in a heated discussion of some sort. Bruce was leaning on the railing, and Hal was saying something, gesturing with his hands, but standing way too close for comfort, and good Christ, there was probably about to be an explosion of some sort, and someone was going to get pitched over the edge of the balcony. 

“Heads up,” Barry said, tossing Clark the dishtowel, and he went out to the balcony to bust it up before they got to bloodshed.

“Hey!” he said in what he was aware was an overly cheerful voice. “Hey guys. Who feels like coming to the kitchen for some dessert?”

They both just looked at him, but then Hal shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “Sure.”

Barry felt on firm ground with dessert. He had splurged on the tiramisu at the Italian bakery, mainly because he was a decent enough cook but he was no good with any kind of dessert, and serving his guests ice cream sundaes was probably not sophisticated enough.

“Bruce isn’t going to eat it,” Clark had said, when he had pulled it out of the box earlier today.

“Why the hell not? What’s wrong with it?”

“No, I just mean he doesn’t have a sweet tooth at all.”

“Well, Hal will inhale it, so too bad. Hey, should we have an after-dinner drink? Like a cognac. Maybe a sherry, or something like that? That sounds like something Bruce would like.”

“A sherry?” Clark had said skeptically. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is my apartment, not the dining saloon on the Titanic. And there is such a thing as trying too hard.”

“Okay, but there is also such a thing as an inappropriate time and place to wear flannel. I’m not saying you have to change for dinner, I’m just remarking.”

“This is my dress flannel,” Clark had said, swiping a bit of the tiramisu cream on his finger.

In the end he had ignored Clark’s skepticism, and gone with a nice cognac, and Bruce had looked appreciative when Barry had poured some into the glasses he had bought specially for the event, and even downed most of his glass. Hal had too, for that matter. They had stood around in the kitchen, bathed in wine and cognac and warm light, and Barry had felt a tremendous easing in his middle. The evening had been an amazing success – largely thanks to his conversational vigilance, but still. He couldn’t remember now what he had been so nervous about, this whole evening. What exactly had he thought would go wrong? These were good people. All his friends were good people. He was filled with goodwill toward the universe. He had been wrong to think there were things he couldn’t or shouldn’t say to them. 

“Hal,” he said. “Bruce. I just wanted to say. . . I want to say thank you for this evening. This has been great. I really appreciate you guys being here. Thank you for – well, I guess for putting aside your personal differences to be here tonight.”

They were both looking at him like they had before. “Our personal differences?” Bruce said. 

“Yeah,” Barry said. “You know what I mean. You guys have not always seen eye to eye, and I know that.”

“Well,” Hal said, frowning. His fork was poised over his tiramisu. “That’s not—”

“No no, it’s okay, I’m not blaming anyone. I really do value you both, and I would love it if maybe someday, you learned to see each other the way Clark and I see you.”

Hal looked even more uncomfortable. “Barry,” he said.

“Please just let me say this. I know you are two very different people. Two very, very different people. Believe me, I know that. But when you make an effort, you really can get along. Like tonight. Tonight has been really great. And—look, it’s my birthday next week, and I guess what I’m saying is, the thing I want most in the world is for the two people I love and admire maybe more than anyone else in the world to just get along, you know? Or maybe not even that. Maybe how about just a resolution to bury the hatchet? I would settle for that.”

Bruce and Hal were both staring at him now. He glanced at Clark for support. “You want us to bury the hatchet,” Hal said. 

“Yes! Yes, that is exactly what I want.”

Bruce made an odd noise, which sounded almost like a laugh, but he was steadily regarding the floor and chewing his lip. “Okay,” Hal said, setting his cake down. “Yeah. I think that sounds like a reasonable request.” 

“Thank you,” Barry said, full of relief. And Clark had been worried that they shouldn’t even address the issue. Well, Clark worried for nothing. Sometimes meeting a thing head-on was the best tactic.

“What do you think, Bruce?” Hal was saying. “Barry here thinks you and I ought to try harder to get along.”

“Well, we’ll certainly do our best,” Bruce said smoothly. 

“Nah, I think he might want a little more than just empty promises, Bruce. I mean, we can say we’ll try, but that’s not really the same as proving that we’re trying, is it?” There was something odd about Hal’s face. Some strange gleam in his eye. 

“Ah,” Bruce said. “No, I begin to see your point. Barry deserves better.”

Barry was confused. There was some strange thing passing between the two of them, something that he was not understanding. He looked from Hal to Bruce, and back again. And then Hal had crossed to the counter opposite him, the one Bruce was leaning on, and stood directly in front of Bruce. “So he thinks we should bury the hatchet,” Hal said.

“Well,” Bruce said, his voice low, his eyes intent on Hal. “You know burying the hatchet is my favorite game.”

“Yes I do happen to know that,” Hal murmured, and he hooked a finger in the waist of Bruce’s pants.

 _Stop stop what are you doing!!_ Barry tried to say, because he was fairly certain Hal was about to get his face ripped off and fed to him. But Bruce just had this small smile on his face, and he was only looking at Hal, and all of a sudden with the flash of a million light bulbs going off at once Barry recognized that look in Bruce’s eyes, because he had seen it before – hell, he had worn it before. It was the look that meant Bruce was seeing only one thing in the room, and that thing was Hal. Only thing in the universe, actually. 

Hal leaned to Bruce’s mouth, and kissed it. 

Bruce’s hand slid its way up Hal’s chest, around his back, to land at his waist, where it tugged him in closer. It was the slowest, most sensual kiss Barry had ever witnessed. Bruce’s jaw practically came unhinged, and his hand came up to cradle Hal’s jaw as Hal kissed him. Hal’s hands slid south, slid around Bruce’s waist, held him so close Barry couldn’t see where one ended and the other began. This was a kiss of two people who knew each other’s bodies and knew them well; it wasn’t a kiss of two people who had decided to put on a show for fun. It was a kiss that pulsed with longing and tenderness and knowledge. For long minutes the kiss went on while Barry was rooted to the spot, all ability to form words sucked out of his brain like one of those giant cartoon suction tubes had broken through the ceiling and vacuumed up all his speech, all the little letters and punctuation marks and numbers and everything just flying up into the big silver funnel with a loud slurping sound while he stood there blinking. 

“Well you sons of bitches,” drawled Clark, and Hal had pulled off and was laughing now, and there was an easy smile on Bruce’s face, as he settled back against the counter, but his eyes were still on Hal. 

“Give me that,” Barry said, striding over and grabbing Hal’s cake off the counter where he had left it. He dumped it unceremoniously in the trash. “No more cake for you,” he said.

“Aw c’mon Bar, it was a little funny. Your fucking face,” he said, breaking into another grin, and even Bruce was tucking a small smile into the corner of his mouth. Barry rounded on them.

“How long, you pieces of shit? How long?”

“About four months, give or take,” Hal said sheepishly, with a glance at Bruce, who was still just smiling. 

“Four months. I hate you both. Clark, back me up here.”

“I—you know—” Clark began, but then he was wiping at the lower half of his face, and the unbelievable asshole was actually laughing too. “Sorry, Bar,” he said. “But that _was_ pretty damn funny.”

“Unbelievable,” Barry sighed. 

“I don’t know what you’re so sore about,” Hal said. “You wanted us to get along, and here we are, getting along.”

“You let me stand there and – ‘oh, poor me, I guess I’ll have to take your word on that,’ you are such a bullshitter, I can’t even believe you.”

“Can I get an appeal on my cake though? I mean, where is that fair? Clark, come on, you gotta stand up for yourself, stop allowing Barry to dictate everything around here, how dick-whipped do you really wanna be?”

“Wow,” said Clark, “throw you in a hole and you just start digging, don’t you?”

“This is what I’m saying,” Barry said, but Clark’s smile was warm and open, the kind that made his eyes light up, and Hal was still laughing like a loon, and Bruce – Bruce was just standing there, and the man actually looked relaxed for maybe the first time since Barry had known him. Just leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, smiling and watching Hal’s laughter, and. . . and it was beautiful, all of it. They were beautiful. The world had gone nuts all around him, none more than these three idiots. Happy, Barry thought, with a sudden jolt to his middle. This was what happy looked like. And their lives were not such that happiness in moments like these could be wasted.

“I hate every single one of you,” Barry announced, but he grinned, and he let his voice mean the opposite, and Hal caught his grin, and then Barry laughed aloud, the cognac and the happiness swirling inside of him, warming him all the way down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If no one gets my epigraph I am going to be super sad.


	5. Pillow Talk

Hal’s head lay on Bruce’s chest, but he knew Hal was awake. He could feel it in his breathing. He stroked Hal’s head. After a while he reached for Hal’s hand, heavy on the mattress beside him, and laced his fingers in Hal’s. Hal squeezed back. 

“What you did tonight,” Bruce whispered. “That wasn’t something you had to do.”

“I know.”

“It wasn’t something I required.”

“I know that too.”

“I thought you might be regretting it.”

Hal shifted a little, but it was only to resettle his head the other direction. “Nah,” he said. “Besides, Barry had that one coming. Thought I was gonna strangle him tonight, all that looking at us like Riff and Bernardo were about to start a knife fight in the living room.”

Bruce chuckled softly, and started stroking his back. “We should have planned ahead, staged something really dramatic.”

“Oh I think we were dramatic enough. And you.” He raised his head. “’Bury the hatchet is my favorite game.’ You were enjoying yourself quite a bit there, drama queen.”

“I was at that,” he said. 

“So don’t do that,” Hal said.

“Don’t do what?”

“Don’t look at me like Barry did, like you’re worried I’m about to explode or something. Bruce. I kissed you in front of them because I wanted to, all right? Because I wanted them to know. And I promise I’m okay with that, and I am not about to have some kind of freak-out here, my hand to God.”

“That's not what I'm thinking, I promise.”

“Oh really.”

“Really. Honestly, I was just impressed about the West Side Story allusion.”

Hal dropped his head back onto Bruce’s chest with a thunk. “Wow I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” Bruce whispered, his mouth tangling in Hal’s hair. Hal shipped out again tomorrow. The truth was, that had been his only hesitation about tonight – Clark had scheduled it for Hal’s last night Earthside for a few months, and Bruce had been hoping they could have the night to themselves. But when he had heard the hopefulness in Clark’s voice, he hadn’t been able to refuse. And maybe Hal was feeling the same thing, because he ought to be sleeping. They both ought to be, but somehow they weren’t. But God, the fucking tonight had been electric, when they got home. Hal had been all over him, and Bruce had been so hard, had wanted him so bad. He couldn’t ever explain adequately to Hal, what seeing his pleasure did to him. Making Hal cry out in pleasure, hearing that low groan in his throat – Bruce always lost it, always came before he meant to, when Hal started making noises like that. It was funny how Hal Jordan kept rewriting the rules of his body for him. Kept rewriting the rules of everything, actually. 

That first week they had spent together, on the island, had been like that too. For one thing, Hal had just shed all his clothes the minute they arrived, and never put them back on. Of course, it was a deserted island, and it was just the two of them, but normal people didn’t just walk around naked all the time, completely unconcerned. Not that Bruce had complained. God, he had not. Being able to stare at that body whenever he wanted had been a feast. 

And the constant narration – that was another thing that broke all the accustomed rules. Apparently Jordan’s mouth was not connected to any known off switch, and the first time Bruce had gotten his mouth on that thick warm cock, as delicious as he had known it would be, Hal had dug fingers in his hair and writhed underneath him, and the words that spilled out his mouth had made Bruce shake with want: _oh God baby please yes that feels so fucking fucking good oh Christ do that again, your mouth your mouth oh fuck right there please it feels so good so good._ Bruce had had to rub himself on the sheets while he sucked him, and had come when Hal did, shuddering through his own orgasm as Hal groaned and shook through his. When had that ever happened to him? Never, was when. 

And then the long lazy nights, during most of which they were awake. They slept off and on through the days, and lay sprawled in the bed at nights, the wind blowing the white curtains through the open doorways. And Hal had talked – told him things Bruce knew he had said to no one else, rambling stories about his life before Martin Jordan had been killed, about his brothers. It had made it easy for Bruce to say things as well, to tell halting unaccustomed stories, and in that space that felt like it was removed from time, from the natural order of the universe, why the hell not? Jordan was easy to talk to, in his way, because he had no expectations one way or the other. Jordan didn’t care about him, any more than he cared about Jordan. It was freeing, in its way. 

The last night on the island he had awakened to an empty bed, and no sign of Jordan in the house. He had found him at last, down by the beach, sitting on a promontory of rock overlooking the lagoon, arms around his knees, just staring off into the distance. The moon was so full it was almost bright as day, and Hal looked heart-stoppingly beautiful there – his golden brown skin washed in moonlight, the light shading all the angles of that sharply drawn face. Bruce had climbed up onto the rock behind him, folding his legs around Hal, and pulled him back to rest against his chest, being mindful of the stitches on that wound, which was healing nicely now. They had stayed silent for a long time. 

“End of the week,” Hal had said lightly, after a while. 

“Yes.”

“We go our separate ways and never talk about it again. Those were the rules.”

Bruce had bent his forehead to the back of Hal’s head and shut his eyes. He didn’t trust himself to speak. “Thing is,” Hal continued. “I’ve never been very good at rules.”

“Thank God,” Bruce said hoarsely, and Hal twisted around to face him, and they kissed, and Hal’s mouth on his was so gentle and tender. It felt like he was coming apart under Hal’s mouth, like Hal was rewriting him. Their kisses felt new, and raw, and they kissed on that rock with shaking fingers, pressing their foreheads together. _I don’t know how any of this goes_ he wanted to say, but then he realized he didn’t have to – Hal knew it in his kiss, like he could read things in Hal’s. 

It was the first night Hal had let Bruce fuck him. It hadn’t taken long to figure out what things Hal was comfortable with in bed, and what things he wasn’t. It didn’t matter much to Bruce, because he didn’t tend to assign character traits to sexual activity, but that was clearly not Hal’s world. And in truth getting fucked by Hal was delicious – Hal was good at the long slow tease that drove Bruce wild, and God, rocking back onto Hal’s cock and forward to rub himself on the mattress was so achingly good, and Hal’s whispers of _fuck, you feel so good, how do you feel so good, can I cum inside you fuck I just need to cum in you oh fuck you feel so good_ were so hot that he had barely been able to last. Hal was a gifted fuck, he truly was, and that week was some of the best sex of his life, and he wasn’t somehow longing for something different. But that night on the rock their kisses had gotten more intentional, and Hal had floated them back to the house in a warm green pool of light, their arms still wrapped around each other, and they had never really stopped kissing. _Come on, fuck me_ Hal had whispered, and Bruce had been shaking with want, aching to make that beautiful body arch in pleasure. Hal straddled him and rode him until Bruce was crying out, it was so good.

That was the last they had said about any possibility of ending it, then or ever. Since then they had stolen what time they could, whenever Hal was Earthside – some of it downstairs in the Cave’s bedroom, or at the penthouse, or at Hal’s apartment. Nights here and there, whole luscious days when they could manage it, which felt like endless riches. But never enough. He knew now, it would never be enough. He would always want more, and what a thing about himself that was to discover. 

He used to have a dream, when he was little, that he would be wandering the Manor by himself, and he would happen upon unrecognized corridors, with whole rooms opening off them he had never seen, filled with strange furniture and windows looking on unknown vistas. That was exactly what this felt like – to live in a body your whole life and never know what it could feel. 

“You should actually be with Clark,” Hal whispered in the dark, still lying pillowed on Bruce’s chest. Bruce had been drifting off to sleep in his reverie, and Hal’s voice jolted him awake. “Seriously. My plan was a good one. It would’ve worked I bet. You should have put the moves on Clark when I told you to. You’d probably be a lot better off.”

“He’d probably let me sleep,” Bruce murmured. 

“Oh I think you’d get a lot of sleep.”

Bruce snorted, and pulled Hal into a slightly more comfortable position. “You’ve got to get some rest tonight,” Bruce said. 

“You’re seriously lecturing me about that? The man who last slept for eight hours in middle school.”

“Mm. Alfred has tales to tell you about my sleep habits in middle school, I imagine. And speaking of.”

“Of Alfred?”

“Yes, in a way. When you get back, I’d like to have you for dinner at the Manor. With Alfred. If that’s something you’d like to do.”

“Just Alfred?”

“And my son.”

“You’re gonna have to narrow that one down, you’ve got quite a few of those.”

“Well, how about, you pick which one you want to start with.”

“I would say, pick the least scary one for me, but that’s like picking Australia’s least deadly animal, isn’t it. How about I just start with the small one.” 

Bruce was silent, and Hal raised his head. “That was the wrong choice, wasn’t it. Oh God I’m gonna die.” 

Bruce laughed, and scooted down in the bed so he could fold his arms around Hal, and Hal sighed and nuzzled closer still, and after a few minutes he felt Hal go boneless, and he knew he was getting at least a few hours’ sleep. 

He had wanted to ask about relations with the Guardians, where things stood with that. He wanted not to feel the convulsive clench of fear at the thought of Hal shipping off for another assignment when there were members of the Corps out there – and possibly some Guardians themselves – who wanted him gone. But he wouldn’t raise the subject again. Last time he had, the conversation had quickly devolved into angry shouts and accusations, and that was not how he had wanted to spend Hal’s last few hours. It was curious, being with someone whose temper was as quick as his own. Like carrying a lit match through a slick of gasoline sometimes; he kept his hand cupped around the flame, and they were both, he knew, mindful of explosions. 

He knew Jordan inside and out, and yet the man was continually surprising him. Tonight, for instance. He had read the impulse in Hal’s eyes, but he had never thought he would actually do it – never thought Hal would actually out himself in such dramatic fashion in front of both Barry and Clark. Never thought he would out himself at all, in fact. And when Hal had crossed the kitchen to him, that slow wicked grin in his eyes, Bruce’s chest had started a triphammer beat that Clark surely must have heard. That was the thing about Hal Jordan: you could have all the correct variables, and yet still somehow the answer to the equation could surprise you. There were always unaccounted-for variables lurking in there. 

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, because it would mean missing Hal’s departure. But he had been too tired, and when he woke, the bed was empty. There was a scrawled note though, resting on the pillow beside him, and Bruce rolled over, squinting at it. 

_Didn’t want to wake you. Get some rest. See you in two months._ And at the bottom, in an extravagant scrawl: _Love, H._

It was a note, and not a text, like they usually did. Was it a note because he had wanted to leave that sign-off, using a word neither of them had yet used? The "Love, H" was larger than all the rest of the note. Bruce studied it. He reached for his phone on the table beside the bed. It was early, and there was still the possibility Hal was in text range; most times before heading out he went to the Watchtower first anyway. _Try not to get yourself killed,_ he wrote. He set his phone down and rolled over, wrapping himself in sheets that smelled of the sunlight spilling in the window, and of Hal. After a few minutes he reached for his phone and sent another text: _I love you too._

He had started to drift back to sleep when an answering text pinged. _Try not to get MYSELF killed?? Let’s talk about your night job, are you even fucking serious rn._

 _Not the part I was hoping you’d focus on,_ he wrote back.

_Shattering your hopes and dreams is my lifes work. Gotta blow outta this solar system, catch you on the flip side Spooky._

He gave a snort, then set the phone down, got up and showered and put his clothes back on and found himself something to eat in the under-stocked penthouse kitchen. At least the coffee supply was endless. It was at least forty-five minutes later when he discovered the last text, the one he had missed when he was in the shower. Too late to respond now, Hal would definitely be out of range, which had probably been the point. 

_Love you so goddamn much,_ it read.

* * *

“You don’t think it’s weird he wouldn’t tell me,” Barry said.

“I don’t know, Barry. In the four minutes since you’ve asked me last, I have not come up with a different answer.”

“Well it’s weird.”

“I will take your word for it.” 

“No but seriously,” he said, propping on an elbow. “It’s profoundly weird. We’re talking about Harold Jordan, who has never kept anything to himself for more than six seconds in his entire life. Who can’t even keep his gym locker combination a secret. And he keeps this from me, of all things?”

“He manages to keep his identity a secret,” Clark pointed out.

“Yeah, well, that’s a matter of life and death.”

“Maybe he felt like this was too.”

“Yeah but that—” He paused. Clark was just watching him. “Clark. Why would he think that?”

“Just because my sexual orientation is different from most other people’s, doesn’t mean I don’t know what a closet is. And for people who are in them, closets can feel like a matter of life and death. As maybe you have reason to remember,” he said gently.

Barry was silent at that. Not once had Hal talked to him about his sexuality, not once. He had assumed it was the military that had done that to him – and then, his family had been a military family, too. It was just one of those things Hal didn’t talk about. He had thought that maybe he didn’t talk about it because it wasn’t a big deal, that Hal was mainly straight anyway. Of course, Barry hadn’t talked about his own identity with Hal. Still hadn’t, actually. Not really. 

“Yeah,” Barry said. “But that he would be seeing _Bruce_ , of all people, and not talk to me about it. I just mean, that he wouldn’t even tell me that part.”

“Mm hm. And how long had we been together before you told Hal about us?”

“Look. You are terrible at this. Your job here is not to remind me how unreasonable I’m being, it’s to agree with me no matter what. That’s just Relationships 101.”

“I would say something about your relationship track record, but mine is just as bad, so never mind.”

“Still,” Barry said, staring at the ceiling now. “I still think it’s weird he didn’t tell me. You don’t think it’s weird that Bruce didn’t tell you?”

Clark just looked at him. “Okay, you’re right, never mind, stupid question,” Barry said. 

“Hey,” Clark said, lifting his hand and brushing a kiss on the knuckles. “Tonight was great. Maybe just think about that, and not worry about the other. It was really, really great.”

“Yeah. It was. C’mere.” And he pulled Clark down to him for a soft kiss. Clark’s arms came around him, lifting him closer, and Barry let his fingers play in the back of Clark’s hair. He thought of Bruce’s fingers resting lightly on Hal’s head, and of that glimpse of tenderness. Of the way Bruce had looked at Hal. 

“It was nice, though,” Barry murmured.

“Hm? What was?”

“Seeing them like that. I mean, I bitched about it, I know, but it did make me happy. Really happy.”

“Me too,” Clark said. “And listen, I love Bruce and Hal, don’t get me wrong, but would you mind telling me when they are going to be leaving this bed? Because at some point tonight I would like to get lucky.”

“Mm,” Barry said, pulling him back down. “Come here, baby. I’m sorry. My mind just got a little blown, is all. I’m working through it, I promise.”

Clark’s kisses became more intent, and Barry rolled them so they were more or less entwined, and he could feel Clark’s beautiful cock thickening up against his leg. “It was just,” Barry said, between kisses. “It’s just, I haven’t ever seen Hal look like that, or anyone look _at_ Hal like that, and I—”

“Please shoot me,” Clark said, muffled into his collarbone, and Barry laughed. 

“Sorry, sorry, I just—”

“Hot,” Clark said, raising his head. “Barry. The word you are looking for is hot. They were hot. It was a fucking floor show, and it was unbelievably hot, and I’ve been a little bit hard ever since, and fuck, Barry, please, I need—”

“Baby,” Barry murmured, his mouth hungry on Clark’s now, all thought of anything else wiped from him. He brushed his fingers against Clark’s cock, half-hard already, and Clark groaned, pushed up against him – he wasn’t kidding, he really was cranked. “Fuck,” Barry panted. 

He maneuvered them so that Clark could get some good friction, and let the slow undulation of Clark’s hips grind on him. Sometimes when he was really hungry for it, Clark needed to come first, and come fast, and then afterward he was good for the long haul – good for several more, in fact, because one of the many – many, many, MANY – joys of Clark’s amazing body was its apparently endless capacity for orgasm. 

God, the first time they had actually fucked. Barry had come to fucking pieces, he had just been dismantled under Clark’s hands and tongue and cock. He had had this whole careful timeline in his head, that they would move really slowly, that he could ease into the whole physical part of their relationship, but in reality he hadn’t needed that at all. His body had waited so many years for this already, and it was just not going to wait any longer. The first time they had fucked had been just two days after their first kiss. Barry hadn’t ever known desire like that, hadn’t known _want_ could feel like his body felt after one lick from Clark’s tongue. 

And when he had come with Clark’s cock in him, Christ – his whole body had vibrated with pleasure. Literally vibrated, as it turned out. His body was in such an agony of pleasure that the speed force became this tangible thing wrapped around him, like a river, only it had curled around and around his body, and he could dip a hand into it wherever he wanted, like dipping your hand in the ocean from a moving speedboat, only it was the speed force, and he wasn’t even aware what was happening to his body until he heard Clark’s strangled cry.

“Fuck,” he had cried out. “Barry, what are you—oh fuck, _fuck_ —” And then his words had become inarticulate, as Barry’s body began to vibrate around him, and yeah, he was the person who had actually come closest to making Superman black out, as it turned out. The speed force had entangled them both, they were one body, and the vibration had begun at the sub-atomic level and spread to every cell in Barry’s body, and every cell in the body joined to his, and the pleasure when it peaked was a white wall of joy so pure it was almost pain. Afterward they had lain in Clark’s bed, holding onto each other and panting, trying to get air. 

“Is that. . . something. . . that happens. . .a lot?” Clark had managed, and Barry had just looked at him, because hell no, that was not something that had ever happened before. “Because. . . Jesus. . . fucking. . . Christ.” And he had hauled himself up on weakened limbs to kiss Barry some more, their mouths still shaking with it.

“That’s never happened before,” Barry had panted. “So that’s not just like, a gay sex thing?”

Clark had given him an incredulous look. “Barry, if all gay sex were like that, the human race would have died out millennia ago.”

Barry started laughing, just feebly, and then Clark had laughed too. But it wasn’t funny, not really. All this time, that was what Barry’s body had been capable of, but he had just never known it. Iris had been right, when she had accused him of being absent during sex. He had been holding part of himself back, and maybe it wasn’t even a sexuality thing – maybe it was just a love thing, that he had not actually known what it was to surrender to anything like that. To surrender to his body, to discover all it could do and feel.

When Hal had asked him about using their powers in bed, in truth he hadn’t known what to say. He had waved it aside with a laugh, submerging his irritation at the remark about vanilla sex, but he had thought _oh Harold you have no idea._ They never _didn’t_ use their powers, the truth was, because they were never less than fully and completely themselves in bed, and it turned out that when you brought your whole self to bed with someone, it really was your _whole self_ , and in their case that meant that hell yes, they were going to dip into the speed force whenever they felt like it, and hell yes, he was going to enjoy the hell out of Clark’s strength pinning him or Clark’s flight power floating them four feet above the bed or Clark’s heat warming his bones – not to mention Clark’s cum that pulsed in thick rivers around him and in him, and none of which was remotely as hot as Clark’s small broken moan when Barry’s cock was in him, and he set up a gentle vibration, just enough to make Clark writhe and gasp and spill cum all over himself in steady orgasmic waves. So yeah sure thing, Hal – vanilla sex. Fuck you too. 

Clark needed him tonight, and Barry could wait. His steady hand on Clark’s cock was gentle, because he knew that was the touch that drove Clark insane with want at the not-quite-enoughness of it. When Clark was close, so close, he let his hand vibrate, just in small erratic pulses, and it was all he could do to hold Clark on the mattress, he arched up so hard. Barry’s whole arm was wet with cum. Clark dug fingers into the back of Barry’s neck and his voice was hoarse as he gasped _mine you’re mine_ in Barry’s ear. 

“Yeah baby, I’m yours,” he whispered back, gentling him through it. He thought his chest would break with love. He had to close his eyes at it, at Clark’s vulnerability here in his arms, at the trust and beauty of it.

“Sorry,” Clark was murmuring, wiping ineffectually at his arm and all the cum on it. 

“No, no sorry, so fucking hot, baby you’re so beautiful,” he whispered back, his hips starting a grind on Clark’s sex-warm body. He slowed it down though, because he wanted tonight to last. Neither of them had work tomorrow, and they had time, and more time in front of that – all the rest of the years of their lives, and whatever there was on the other side of that. 

That feeling lasted until he got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, and happened to brush up against the shelves opposite the toilet. A chaotic cascade of washcloths, half-used tubes of toothpaste, hair clippers, shampoo bottles, and assorted toiletries showered onto his groggy head, and one of those bottles of body wash weighed conservatively fifty pounds. He staggered against the wall in the dark, where another disorganized shelf rained its contents on him. A pair of manicure scissors had decided to lodge in his left shoulder-blade, he was pretty sure.

“Jesus fucking CHRIST, Kent!” he shouted, because true love was wonderful and awesome and amazing, but organizational skills were forever. Honestly. 

He stumbled back to bed and slid under the blankets, where Clark wrapped a heavy arm around him, pulling him close. “Sorry,” he murmured against the back of Barry’s neck.

“Your bathroom has mortally wounded me,” he whispered back. 

“You look okay.”

“Seriously, if my lab looked like that, I’d never get anything done.”

“Yeah,” Clark yawned. “’S weird how I don’t keep my bathroom shelves to sterile forensic laboratory standards.”

“I didn’t say they had to be sterile, but maybe a little less lethal?”

Clark sighed and re-settled, his head nestled on Barry’s shoulder. “Moving day is gonna be fun,” he said. 

“I’m just saying. I can already see how divorce number two is gonna go.”

“Well that’s an interesting assumption.”

Barry turned to face him. “I didn’t mean. . .” he started, but Clark’s eyes were fully awake and watching him, and he trailed off. “Yeah I do,” he said. 

“You do,” Clark said slowly.

“I do. Do you?”

“I do.”

“All right then,” Barry said, and pulled Clark to him, back onto his chest, kissing his rumpled hair that smelled like the shampoo that had just tried to knock his brains out. 

“One condition,” Barry whispered after a while.

“What’s that?”

“We don’t tell Bruce and Hal until four months after,” Barry said, and he could feel Clark’s laughter against his chest, and then he could feel that Clark couldn’t stop laughing, and Barry grinned into the dark. 

It was all right, this love thing.


End file.
